


Fire to the Rain

by leici



Category: Real News RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Keith ruminates on Anderson's weird eating habits, his infuriating quirks, and the nature of their "relationship".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire to the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set on Friday, February 3, 2012, three days after the Florida GOP primary. That day was also the eighth in a row on which Keith didn't host Countdown because he was recovering from bronchitis related laryngitis (he also had a relapse the following Tuesday, and was out three more days).
> 
> The title comes from the Adele song of the same name, which I'd been listening to a lot when I started writing this fic.
> 
> A special shout out goes to packt, who was my lovely beta – thank you for resolving my brain damage!
> 
> Written April 2012.

Anderson is on another peanut butter kick.  
  
It's more than easy to tell when one of these things crops up. Because – and it's a well known fact – Anderson doesn't enjoy eating about 95% of the time. Which just baffles the hell out of Keith, because he  _loves_  food. It's stupidly unfair that, of the two of them,  _he's_  the one that has to watch what he eats (his doctor is always, constantly telling him to drop twenty pounds), who has celiac disease – even though it's just a touch of it – and has to pay at least some attention to what he puts into his body. Anderson, on the other hand, can literally eat anything, doesn't have any allergies, has a metabolism to be envied by every other middle-aged man on Earth. And yet he goes through half his day on the energy provided by a protein shake, eats the same thing for lunch for weeks at a time, and frequently skips dinner all together.  
  
It's not that it causes many issues in their daily lives; they don't live together, and they don't really see each other all that often during the workweek (partially for appearances, but also because of conflicting schedules and general busyness). Where it does start to create strain is that it's almost impossible for Keith to take his boyfriend (the term is actually banned – by Anderson, naturally – but Keith occasionally uses it inside his own head not only for its sentimental value, but also the internal petulance it affords) out on a date.  
  
There has to be a workable reason for them to be out together. Before they became a couple (another outlawed term – Anderson restricts relationship identifiers to 'colleagues' and 'acquaintances' only), there had first been the polite deference of being occasional coworkers, then the mostly friendly competition of being pit against each other on opposing networks in the same time slot. While they've probably never been labeled as enemies, friendship is far enough of a leap that they really do have their past on their side, as far as keeping their relationship a secret goes. Still, Keith actually does like the guy – despite Anderson's long, long list of quirks – and he wants at least a few of those things that normal, non-closeted couples get to have.  
  
He can sporadically get Anderson to accept a lunch invitation, and he even managed to take Anderson to a Yankees game once (in a private box, of course, and under the camouflage provided by a ballcap and a pair of sunglasses), but dinner is always tricky. Show nights are completely off the table, except maybe on Fridays, and even then it's way after the post-show breakdown. Which means dinner is closer to being Saturday morning breakfast. But in the seventeen months he and Anderson have been swapping bodily fluids, Keith's gotten used to taking what he can get. And he loves breakfast, so even that's win-win.  
  
Today, though, he's thwarted by a God damned jar of creamy Jif peanut butter. It's been almost exactly nine weeks since the last time Anderson had a food obsession (that one had been unfrosted blueberry Pop-Tarts – Keith still has a couple boxes of those in his own apartment, for post-coital reasons), and Keith had been planning to try to convince Anderson to do a very late Friday night dinner at a 24 hour French restaurant that Keith had heard about via some interns at Current. But Anderson – still dressed in his suit, top button open, tie loosened, glasses on (show postmortem mode – God but it turns Keith on  _so much_  to see him that way, because even if his  _colleague_ is just shy of certifiably insane, he's unbelievably attractive) – is eating his dinner out of a plastic jar with a spoon. Even worse is the look on Anderson's face when he turns his attention to Keith's rapping at his office door frame, sliding the spoon out of his mouth and smiling, expression both weary and guilty.  
  
"Sorry," he says before Keith can get a word in, and his tone sounds gummy from the peanut butter on his tongue. "Peanut butter phase," he adds with another grin, and Keith wants to be testy, because he wants to fill Anderson up with good, expensive food, then take him home and put him to bed with a rigorous handjob. But the anger center of his brain has been put on standby by his libido, which is telling him to watch the way Anderson licks out the inside of his cheek, the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows. Keith's half hard before he can even remember how to speak English.  
  
"I was going to ask you if you wanted dinner," he says finally, managing to make his voice even, his clipped, on-air staple. "There's this place, halfway between here and SoHo–"  
  
"I've got a lot to finish up tonight," Anderson cuts him off, and Keith scowls. He doesn't normally let people get away with interrupting him, and Anderson's already got him way too worked up. Which is what causes him to break another of their dozens of unspoken rules; he turns and shuts Anderson's door.  
  
Anderson tilts his head, interrogatory, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line. "Keith."  
  
"No, fuck this," Keith responds, and he reaches behind himself to turn the lock for punctuation. "We're doing this right now. I don't give a fuck what you think people are going to say." Anderson looks a little worried, like Keith's planning to yank him out of his chair and fuck him over his desk or something. And while that's really tempting (and Keith's dick is definitely on board), he's not that reckless, even when he's pissed off. "It's almost one in the morning. You haven't done any live broadcasting for  _hours_ , you look completely exhausted–"  
  
"So you think you can come in here and boss me around? For, what, my own good?" Anderson's keeping his temper, but there's a dangerous flicker behind the lenses of his glasses. Keith just wishes it didn't make his balls ache.  
  
"No, not just you.  _Our_  own good." He pauses to clear his throat, and it's then that he realizes he's starting to sound gravely, his voice breaking down. He spent the entirety of the last week off air – which meant letting other people host  _his_  show – on the orders of his ENT, and he really ought to stop pushing it if he doesn't want a relapse that puts him back on vocal rest. Unfortunately, by this point, he doesn't give a damn what the consequences are; it's too late to turn back now. "It's already been a long, fucked up year, and it only gets worse from here, until November. The nights are going to get longer, and we're going to get bitchier, especially with each other. I just want..." He stops again, but this time it's because this is where he wants to use a whole bunch of those words on Anderson's embargo list. And he would, but even though the door's closed and there are just a few straggling staff left in the halls, he's trying to convince Anderson to leave  _with_  him, not just leave him.  
  
"I want dinner. I want to buy you a glass of wine and listen to you complain and say all the things you can't say on air. I want  _you_ , even if it's just for forty-five minutes at a back table in some restaurant."  
  
Anderson is listening, hands folded in that maddening way that cultured people do, like they're about ready to pat you on the head and call their valet to escort you out. He doesn't speak for a long moment, and Keith finds himself staring at Anderson's perfectly manicured fingernails and wondering how the hell he ended up here, jumping through the hoops he does just to get laid occasionally.  
  
"Keith," Anderson starts, and there's that  _tone_ , just shy of condescending, and Keith almost turns and walks straight out of the room. But then Anderson unfolds his hands and places them palm down on the desk, pushing himself up out of his chair, leveling their gazes.  
  
Here it comes, Keith knows it. He's been expecting this since day one, the speech that would come when Anderson inevitably dumped his ass. He's been fired enough times that he knows how bitter and visceral a man can get without swearing, or even raising his voice. Some nights, after he's gone to bed alone, he imagines what sorts of words Anderson will use; incompatible, irreconcilable, unsuited. Sometimes he thinks that Anderson will just fax him a memo one afternoon, something like, 'I believe the usefulness of our arrangement has run its course.' Even every so often on nights when Anderson's asleep beside him, the taste of come and sweat at the back of his throat, he envisions the note left on the pillow in the morning. Anderson's careless, blocky scrawl: 'Last night was the last time.'  
  
"I don't want dinner," Anderson finally says, speaking slowly, almost like he's scolding a child. Keith can feel his temper rising, mouth tensing in a deeper glower. "I want..." Anderson tries to continue, but he falters, which is not something he does very often. He clears his throat, looking down for a second before raising his eyes to Keith's again. "I want to be fucked," he whispers harshly, and it's so rare that Anderson says that word in regular conversation that Keith feels instantly lightheaded. "I have to finish some work, but after that, when I'm done here, I want to go to your place and I want..." Another pause, and Keith can see Anderson shaking, can hear the way Anderson's voice is climbing to a higher octave, even in his rushed, breathless whisper. "I want to go to your place and I want you to fuck me. I need you to fuck me."  
  
Keith can hear himself breathing, the noisy rattle of it in his ears, and his cock is throbbing in his slacks. He wants to reach down and palm it, squeeze it, just to take the edge off the heavy sensation of being so hard his skin feels tight. Instead, he takes a half step forward, his thighs against the edge of Anderson's desk, close enough now to feel Anderson's breath huffing out from between his parted lips. "Let yourself in," he says, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has to not grab Anderson by the shoulders and haul him in for the biting kiss he so desperately wants.  
  
"Okay," Anderson replies, and his voice sounds shaken, like Keith's not the only one of them broken inside, well past the point of yearning. "An hour," he adds, and Keith searches his eyes, pupils blown, watches as they find Keith's mouth and then shift back up. "Half an hour," is the amendment, punctuated by a heavy swallow, by the fluttering of the hectic pulse in his throat.  
  
"Call if you're not coming," is Keith's answer, because he'll wait thirty minutes, an hour, two, but all night alone, anticipating, would be more than torturous.  
  
Something in Anderson's eyes goes dark, his chest heaving as he seems to lean just a little closer. "I'm coming," he murmurs, and it's an intentional double meaning, innuendo like he's never used before. It makes Keith shut his eyes to the heady rush of lust it sends through him. And fuck, if Anderson says one more thing like  _that_ , Keith is either going to die, or fuck Anderson bareback against the inside of his office door. "Get out of here," Anderson says, voice now closer to its normal tenor, breaking into Keith's reverie.  
  
Keith doesn't argue, but he holds Anderson's eyes as Anderson sits back down behind his desk. He lingers another five seconds before turning curtly and letting himself out. He shoves his hands into his pockets to distort the front of his trousers; he doesn't need the late night staffers of CNN to see the parting gift Anderson gave him, even if they wouldn't know for certain from where it came.  
  
When he gets home he does feed himself, because he needs to get his mind off Anderson's mouth, the flash of his sharp, too white teeth when he said  _I need you to fuck me._  It's all enough to drive Keith crazy without a distraction, and he knows he's not going to get a chance to eat again until Anderson leaves a couple hours before dawn. The state of his pantry is frankly pretty sad – he's been eating at his desk and getting takeaway since the Iowa Caucus – and all he can settle on for something quick and at least mildly nutritious is Anderson's fucking Pop-Tarts. He watches as they brown in his toaster oven and asks himself – like he does regularly – just why the hell he puts up with all of this. He might be kind of a dick, but he's never had any legitimate complaints in the sex department, and he's attractive and well known enough that he could probably find someone less complicated to sleep with on a regular basis without a lot of effort.  
  
But maybe that's it; because Anderson is complex in a way that's not so intriguing as it is preoccupying, compulsory. For days after the first time they hooked up, Keith couldn't forget the sound of Anderson's voice, the guarded whisper egging him on, the strange words he chose to say, little things that got into Keith's brain and burrowed their way into his subconscious. Keith had thought at first it might be a hate fuck, because there had almost always been friction, a mostly polite distaste for each other. Intense was a nice way to put it, messy and hard and fast, over in a blur of sweat slick skin and colliding bodies, a forgotten room in a nameless hotel after a charity event Keith can't remember. But in the weeks afterward, details kept rolling to the front of Keith's mind, invading his dreams and distracting him from his work.  
  
The reply he received to the email he sent, when he finally couldn't take it anymore, arrived in less than four minutes.  
  
And that's when all of this started. They'd had lunch, spoken in code, sojourned to Anderson's penthouse to seal the deal. Afterward, during the strangest session of pillow talk in Keith's life, they'd hammered out the details, composed line after line of fine print, and signed on the figurative dotted line. That's how Anderson Cooper became Keith's not-boyfriend.  
  
Sitting at his counter, eating slightly overcooked blueberry Pop-Tarts, he remembers that spring afternoon with the kind of softened edges that accompany a pleasant dream. Anderson's apartment is unsurprisingly gorgeous, posh and well decorated and comfortable in a way that most people's homes can't be without Fung Shui experts and interior designers. That day it had felt like walking into another world; the light from the windows seemed amplified, casting a heavenly glow over the space, white bed linens and gauzy curtains and expensive, bleached wood furniture. The sheets were so fine under his back that Keith didn't have to wonder about their Egyptian origins, the mattress somehow simultaneously as soft as a cloud and firm enough to stand up to the urgent motion of their bodies against it.  
  
They don't go there very often (the apartment; Keith's never even been to the firehouse, or the place in Long Island); there are too many eyes on who goes up to the penthouse in that elevator, doormen and concierges and staff who are generally smart (and well paid) enough to turn a blind eye to what one of the tenants might be up to. But there is still always the fear that someone will leak the story, wanting to seek their fortune by selling their secrets. It really is a pity, though, because in his own home, Anderson seems able to fully relax, to let himself go in a way he can't anywhere else. The first time – their second – was probably the best sex of Keith's life. The natural light had reflected off Anderson the way it did everything else in his bedroom, turning his pale, perfect skin into something warm and glowing. Filtered sunlight had glanced across Anderson's eyes and made them shine like back-lit sapphires. And his beautiful, uncontained voice, the way he took and gave and let it all go, moving and arching astride Keith's body like it had been created solely for the purpose of his pleasure.  
  
Maybe it's a little pathetic to romanticise something like that, especially being who he is and what he believes, but in that moment, when he felt Anderson coming undone around him, caught up in the storm of Anderson's release, Keith felt like he could see the beginning and the end of them, and he was swept away by the tide. There are words for it that even now he won't allow himself to say, too soon, and yet it was instantaneous. He knew. He  _knew_.  
  
Looking down into his plate, it turns out he's spent more time breaking up his tarts than actually eating them, leaving bits of crumbled crust scattered across the china, blue smears of something vaguely blueberry-like on the tips of his fingers. He licks the sticky filling off his index finger, and he finds that the flavor brings an intense sense memory, a warmth in his belly and the reminder of Anderson's soft, morning warm lips. Anderson must have spent the entire night at Keith's sometime during the Pop-Tart phase, because they almost never eat breakfast together, not in the morning-after sense. But this memory is very much that, a meal at Keith's kitchen table, Anderson dressed in nothing but a pair of Keith's sweats (baggy on his narrow hips), the smell of coffee and artificial fruit filling, Anderson's adorable giggle echoing through the room.  
  
This is why he does this, tortures himself, puts up with Anderson's asinine rules, tows the line where he'd normally just say 'fuck this' and leave it behind. Because being with Anderson, when they're truly together, is so  _good_. Fulfilling. Anderson is smart and funny and caring and imaginative, and he understands Keith, his career and his stress level, and he knows just what to say or do to talk him down from the proverbial ledge.  
  
He's taking his demolished Pop-Tarts to dispose of them when he hears a key in the door lock, and he tries to ignore the shiver of anticipation that rolls up his spine as he tips the pastry debris into the trash. The door swings open while he's putting the plate into the dishwasher, and he meets Anderson in the entryway as Anderson is rebolting the door.  
  
"Hey," Anderson greets him, looking even more exhausted than he had when Keith last saw him in his office, dark circles more apparent now under his eyes, the creases in his forehead deepened. He slips off his coat, and Keith takes it before Anderson can hang it up himself. Normally he'd stow Anderson's coat in his closet; part of their dynamic, observing social niceties even when it's just the two of them. Tonight, though, he tosses the jacket over the back of the closest chair, taking Anderson's satchel next, setting it aside.  
  
Anderson eyes him, still in his glasses, his suit, but more tousled now, not put together at all. Keith finds it adorable and sexy all at once.  
  
"You okay?" Anderson is asking him, and Keith nods, still struck dumb by how handsome his boyfriend (it's too fucking late and he's too far gone to even considering censoring it in his brain) looks right now, world weary, human. There's a bit of a standoff, the two of them looking at each other, almost contemplating, and Keith feels things inside him breaking loose, even as he tries to hold himself together.  
  
"Earlier," Keith hears himself say, and that's the only word he gets out of his mouth before Anderson is replying, "Yeah, I meant it." Strides from both of them propel them into each other, Keith's big hands cupping Anderson's jaw and Anderson's arms hooking around Keith's back. They're kissing hard in an instant, teeth clashing, tongues working with purpose, and Keith drives Anderson's back into the nearest wall, forcing the air out of both sets of their lungs. Parting, their gasps are in unison as they refill their bodies with oxygen and collide again, Keith holding Anderson's head with enough pressure that he alone gets to decide the angle in which their mouths come together.  
  
Somewhere over the thrumming of his own pulse in his head, Keith can hear Anderson's kiss muted voice, panting, moaning at a pitch he's not sure he's heard before. It's wanton and desperate, just like the press of Anderson's fingers into Keith's back, four pin points on each side, digging into Keith's shoulder blades. Anderson tries to tilt his head, and Keith relaxes the death grip he has on Anderson's skull, encouraging the motion. But the shift causes their glasses to hook between them, Anderson's dislodging Keith's, knocking them askew on his face.  
  
"Fuck," Anderson breathes when he pulls off, and he moves a hand to right Keith's frames on his nose.  
  
"Let's go to the bedroom," Keith suggests, since they're talking now anyway, voice rough with desire.  
  
"No," is Anderson's response, and he shifts both hands to Keith's hips to yank him closer. "Right here."  
  
Keith opens his mouth to protest – they're not ancient, but they're not teenagers either – but Anderson silences him with a look, reaching up and pulling off his own glasses, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor with a clattering of plastic. "Right here," Anderson repeats, and his eyes say what he won't voice, that he wants Keith to take him without comfort, without foreplay, rough and raw in the entryway of Keith's apartment.  
  
"Okay," Keith concedes, breathless, because he honestly doesn't care  _where_  this happens, just that it  _does_. And he can't deny Anderson when he's like this, wouldn't even if he could. The major drawback of the location is, of course, that he doesn't keep condoms in his kitchen (though maybe he should start). Rather than resolving that particular issue right away, he leans in and kisses Anderson again, deeply, sucking the breath out of his lungs, growling lightly as Anderson pulls his shirt from the back of his pants, gripping the fabric in his fists. Keith kneads the tense muscles in Anderson's neck with his fingers, trying to massage the knots out of them, and Anderson sighs heavily into his mouth, at least fractionally relieved.  
  
Letting his hands slide down, he cups Anderson's narrow waist, his palms almost large enough to span the entire width of Anderson's lower back. He pulls Anderson close, feels Anderson's erection trapped at an odd angle in his slacks, grinds against it carefully before he moves a hand to adjust it, working it up until it points skyward. Anderson makes a broken sound when Keith brings their pelvises together again, shifting his own cock back and forth over the top of Anderson's, and Anderson's hands move front to get to the buttons on Keith's shirt, pulling them apart with shaking fingers. Keith can tell that Anderson's caught up in this when he tries to shove Keith's shirt off without removing his tie, having to break the kiss to deal with the Windsor knot, breath panting and eyes darkened almost black.  
  
When he's got it untied, Anderson holds both ends of the tie in his fists, tugging, and the fire in his eyes looks dangerous and intoxicating. Keith takes the moment to roll his hips forward, just so he can watch Anderson's eyelashes flutter, can hear Anderson's voice break on a breathy moan.  
  
"Cuffs," he says then, simply, and brings his hands between them, offering his wrists up to Anderson. Anderson tips his head and does what he's subtly being asked, feeding the little clear buttons through their holes, removing the last obstacle preventing him from getting Keith's shirt off. And then Anderson takes care of that as well, pushing his palms over Keith's shoulders, skimming the shirt sleeves down Keith's arms. When he's done, he pushes his hands underneath Keith's t-shirt, palming his belly, feeling the skin, but also the wiry hair, the masculine curve of his waist, the give of flesh and the rigidity of muscle. Anderson's told him before that he likes men's bodies, loves the way they feel, the way they smell. And of course he does, he's a gay man (where Keith is just sometimes a little fluid with his sexuality), but the fact that Anderson's talked about it, told Keith about it,  _that's_  something. Anderson's even used the word 'gay' with him, and Keith had wanted to needle Anderson about it at the time, but he hadn't had the opportunity to do it before his mouth was busy with other things.  
  
His mouth actually is a little too unoccupied right now, and Anderson's beautiful, full lower lip is there between them, enticingly shining with Anderson's saliva. He leans forward and catches it carefully between his teeth before sucking at it, and Anderson's answering groan makes him growl. Then he pushes in for a real kiss, getting his hands up around Anderson's jaw again, and Anderson gets a hold on Keith's hips, thumbs against his abdomen, seemingly wanting to keep touching skin. Keith pushes Anderson back against the wall again, but more softly this time, and Anderson breathes out into the kiss, almost a sigh. It does something dangerous low in Keith's belly, and it's all very close to causing a shift, to making Keith do something ridiculous and idiotically romantic like lifting Anderson into his arms and carrying him to bed. But Anderson doesn't do romance, and Keith pretends he doesn't care. Another of their many balancing acts.  
  
Anderson heads it off, though, shifting his hands into the center and entirely foregoing Keith's belt to grope at his cock through his pants. One palm finds the glans and makes a rough circle, fingers rubbing down along the shaft, and okay, this is definitely going to happen here, and it might even happen in Keith's slacks if Anderson keeps this up. It takes a herculean effort to pull himself out of the kiss, away from the perfectly warm haven of Anderson's mouth, and even then he only gets far enough away that their lips brush when he speaks.  
  
"Don't move," he commands, voice deep. "I'll be back in–"  
  
"No," Anderson interrupts, and it's beginning to be a thing with him today, one that's starting to really get on Keith's nerves. "Front right pants pocket," Anderson says next, and Keith forgets to be annoyed, not only because it sounds like Anderson's carrying a condom in his fucking pocket, but because of the way he says the words, like having sex with Keith has been taking up nine-tenths of his brain cycles since the encounter in his office. That's not unreasonable – anticipation of this moment has been taking up one hundred percent of Keith's thoughts since his departure – but Anderson doesn't usually work this way. He likes sex, but he's generally more perfunctory about it than passionate. He rarely acts in heat of the moment, he doesn't engage in seduction of any kind, he doesn't tend to flirt, doesn't tease. This, even as simple as it is, is Anderson showing extreme forethought, thinking enough moves ahead that he knew he didn't want to have to delay the final conclusion to seek out protection.  
  
"Fuck," is what Keith finally says, the sound rough and undeniably turned on. He shoves his left hand down into Anderson's pocket – it's tight fit what with Anderson's heavily muscled thigh beneath the fabric, and broadness of his own wide palm – feeling the serrated edge of the foil packet against a fingertip. He grabs the package between his index and middle fingers, feeling Anderson's quadriceps flex against him as he fishes it out. He obviously wasn't paying attention to anything but condom retrieval, because it's not until after he's completed it that he notices that Anderson's lost his blazer, has gotten Keith's belt unbuckled, and is in the process of unzipping Keith's pants. "Damn, you really want this, don't you?" Keith asks, his voice huskier than usual – partially on account of his recovering vocal cords, but also just the new level of arousal he's experiencing.  
  
"Yes," Anderson responds, moving his hands to Keith's waist and shoving slacks and boxers down Keith's thighs in one determined motion. Keith's dick gets caught up in the elastic of his waistband for a moment in the process, and he hisses in discomfort until it comes free, springing up and hitting him in the abdomen. Once the pain dissipates, he's suffused with a warm feeling of pleasure that makes his balls tighten. Anderson bites down on his lower lip and exhales heavily through his nose, and Keith is suddenly aware that Anderson is  _intentionally_  pushing his buttons. For the first time. It makes another jolt of lust skitter up his spine.  
  
He needs Anderson to be naked, or at least naked enough, as soon as physically possible. He tucks the condom package into his palm, holding it with his last two fingers as he goes for Anderson's fly, metal hook, plastic button, the rip of his zipper and Keith's stooping to get Anderson's pants and boxer briefs to his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way, and Anderson manages to work the puddle of discarded clothing off his feet over his shoes without having to employ the use of his hands. There are instantly a dozen thoughts about what Keith wants – to crush Anderson back against the wall and just rut against him, to get on his knees so he can press his mouth to Anderson's pelvic bone, letting Anderson's dick leak pre-come into his hair, or even just get his hands on Anderson's delicate parts and grope him – but that's not what either of them really want, not now. Instead he rips open the condom wrapper with his teeth, saying gruffly past it, "Turn around."  
  
Anderson's pliant in action, but the heavy sound of his breathing gives away how lost he is in this. He plants his palms against the wall at shoulder height and dips his head, probably trying to calm the anticipation to something that doesn't make him hyperventilate. Lubricated condom in hand, Keith spits the wrapper to the floor and goes about rolling it on, thankful that Anderson is turned away so he can't see how badly Keith's hands are shaking. He looks up from the task at hand to watch Anderson's shoulders lift with his breath, to take in the sight of Anderson's long, pale neck disappearing beneath even whiter, shortly cropped hair. Anderson won't listen to Keith's compliments, so Keith has to keep all the thoughts about how stupidly gorgeous Anderson is to himself. It's not easy; he finds Anderson so attractive that it makes his chest hurt.  
  
He has to lift up the tail of Anderson's shirt to get access to his ass, and Anderson takes the action as a cue to spread his legs wider apart. It's sexy in a way that Keith can't properly articulate, even inside his own head, and he closes his eyes for a moment, needing to cool himself down. He has a moment of indecision even after he gets back to business, because his left hand is busy holding up Anderson's shirt, and he needs his right to get things lined up. But he's not going to let a little thing like logistics get in the way; shifting his right hand down, he aligns his thumb along the end of his dick, leaning in and parting Anderson's buttocks with both, slipping down until his cockhead settles into the hollow of Anderson's asshole. Anderson moans at the same instant Keith sighs in relief, pushing forward and sliding into Anderson with half a dozen firm, but careful, strokes.  
  
Seated, Keith lets go of Anderson's shirt, pleasantly surprised by the feeling of the end of it brushing over the shaft of his erection. He wraps an arm around Anderson's middle and thrusts, sinking deeper and pulling a grunt of pleased shock from Anderson's lips, a groan from his own.  
  
"Go," Anderson pants, his arms tense between himself and the wall, the tightness apparent in his shoulders. "Keith, please," he adds, and the pleading quality of Anderson's voice, the sound of his name in that tone, makes it impossible to ignore Anderson's request (assuming there could have been a chance of noncompliance). Shifting closer, Keith bends his knees and withdraws, just enough to give him space to move, and starts to thrust, hard and deep going in, deliberate and smooth backing off. It's too slow, but it has to begin this way, or it will result in twenty seconds of frantic humping that ends way too soon to be satisfying. But it seems to be agreeable to Anderson, whose head has tipped back, breathy moans rushing out of him with every collision of their bodies, the muscles in his abdomen quivering.  
  
Keith feels like he's been holding back forever – though in reality it's probably been two minutes – when he finally gives in and picks up the pace, resting his forehead against Anderson's upper back so he can watch himself disappearing into Anderson's body again and again. He growls lightly at the sight of it, and Anderson answers with a rush of breathless babbling, gasping lightly, "Yes, fuck, oh God, don't stop." Keith groans, the sound of Anderson's voice breaking him down further, removing the final splintered pieces of his restraint.  
  
"You feel so good," he mewls, lifting his head and breathing hotly against the back of Anderson's neck. "Feel so good on the inside, so fucking perfect." His hand shifts, palm against Anderson's ribs, and his other comes around the other side, but lower, right hand cupping Anderson's erection. He presses that palm down and Anderson thrusts against it instinctively, seeking friction, moving so he can push up into the curve of Keith's fingers and then down and back, meeting Keith's forward thrusts. "Fuck yeah, that's it," Keith tells Anderson's cervical spine, wet lips bumped up against the skin stretched taut over Anderson's vertebrae. "That's it, that's it," he repeats, voice gravelly and ruined, but he doesn't care at this point; all that matters is this, making Anderson lose himself, tipping them both into the chasm of sexual bliss.  
  
He doesn't realize how hard he's fucking Anderson until his thighs start to ache from the effort, and he focuses on the raised volume of Anderson's voice, calling out wordlessly each time Keith penetrates him. "Too much?" he manages to ask, pulling his head back, his own voice throaty. "Am I hurting you?"  
  
"God yes," Anderson responds, but not exactly to Keith's question. "Fuck, fuck yes... yes, yes, yes..." He pants, trailing off into a long, rising moan, his fingers curling against the wall. And he's coming, his cock pulsing under Keith's palm, the rest of his body contracting in sympathy. Keith can feel the warm wetness of Anderson's ejaculation as it leaks down over the backs of his fingers, and he closes his fist around the base of Anderson's dick, squeezing, instantly rewarded with the sensation of Anderson clenching around him. He can barely continue moving, Anderson's so tight now, and he fists the front of Anderson's shirt as he jerks his hips forward in a fury of desperate, rhythmless bucking.  
  
"Yes..." Anderson drawls, the sound almost wounded, trailed closely by a sharp, audible breath. "God, God dammit," he continues, his head hanging heavily between his shoulders. "God dammit,  _please_..." And maybe Keith's brain isn't entirely sure what Anderson's begging for, but his body knows exactly, pushing up into Anderson with a final, deep jolt as his orgasm rushes through him. He can feel a muscle in his jaw twitching and finds he's grinding his teeth, holding his breath as he pumps his release into Anderson's still tense body.  
  
He tries to force himself to relax, releasing a shuddering breath, nosing into the short hairs at the back of Anderson's head. He slips his come-spattered hand up Anderson's belly, letting go of Anderson's shirt with the other so he can flatten his fingers over Anderson's chest, palming the space over his wildly beating heart.  
  
This part is the most difficult for Keith; the silence after completion is his moment of weakness, the instant that he wants to hold Anderson in his arms and kiss him, be close to him. This is when he feels like it all actually  _means_ something, that it's not just fucking, that maybe they do care about each other, that perhaps Anderson feels the way that Keith pretends he doesn't. He won't let himself dwell here; if he does, he won't ever be able to let go.  
  
So he withdraws, slipping his hands away from Anderson's body, reaching down to hold the condom as he pulls out. He slides it off, tying the end, and fumbles to tug his pants and underwear up one handed. "You okay?" he asks Anderson, hoping his voice sounds more even in reality than it does in his head.  
  
"Yeah," Anderson replies, still breathing quickly, his forehead now braced against the wall. "Just give me a second."  
  
So Keith does, taking the used rubber to the trash, tossing it out and then washing his hands. When he comes back from the kitchen, Anderson's got his trousers pulled back on, and he's tucking his shirt into his waistband.  
  
A red flag goes up inside Keith's head, and he speaks before he thinks. "You're not leaving."  
  
"I should," Anderson responds, brushing a hand through his hair. "It's late."  
  
"Exactly why you should stay," Keith counters. "You're exhausted," he appends, trying to sound logical instead of desperate. "At least sleep a couple hours."  
  
Anderson's expression, his entire demeanor, says he's not going to agree. He sighs, looking down to the floor to break the eye contact between them. He bends down to pick up his blazer, and Keith knows he's lost; Anderson's already gone.  
  
But when Anderson stands back up, he doesn't put the jacket on, just holds it by the collar, staring down at his hands. "Okay," he finally says, and it's probably a testament to how overly invested Keith is that he feels the warm rush of relief.  
  
"Okay," he hears himself repeat, and Anderson lifts his head to meet his eyes. There's a moment there, just the two of them gazing at each other, and Keith finds himself memorizing how Anderson's eyes look, the color they take on in the ambient glow from the kitchen track lighting, the curl of his lashes, the size of his pupils. He inhales, and it feels like something is swelling in his throat. "Go take a shower," he suggests finally, reaching out to take Anderson's coat. "I'll clean up down here."  
  
Anderson doesn't reply, only nods, exhaling, but there's more to it than just the action, like he's letting go of something, giving in. He lingers a moment longer, maintaining his silence as he lifts his arm to hand his jacket to Keith, but he makes a point of brushing his thumb over Keith's as he passes the garment over. It's a small gesture, but it's significant enough that it causes goosebumps to rise on Keith's arms.  
  
Once Anderson disappears around the corner toward the master bedroom, Keith lets his eyes close, breathing out long and low to release some of the emotional tension he's been holding back in Anderson's presence. Some nights are harder than others, but he made this deal all those months ago, agreed he wouldn't push, that he wouldn't hold on to any expectations. He didn't realize at the time how difficult it all could be.  
  
More centered, he goes about taking care of the mess, stowing Anderson's jacket and overcoat in the hall closet, setting his satchel next to the door and wiping up the evidence of their coupling from the hardwood. He retrieves his own shirt and tie from the floor and that's when he notices Anderson's glasses, half hidden under a side table where they must have slid after Anderson dropped them. He picks them up, folding the earpieces down, and holds them in his palm for a long moment, just looking at them. He knew it before – has known for a long time, if he's honest with himself – but this all really just cements it. He is so fucking screwed.  
  
In the bedroom, he can hear the shower running through the bathroom door, easily spots the articles of Anderson's clothing carefully folded or hung on the chair by the window. He puts Anderson's glasses on the nightstand on Anderson's side of the bed, strips his own clothes off and tosses them in the bag for the dry cleaners. He pulls on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, pretending all the while that he isn't debating with himself whether he should get dressed or stay naked. The fact that he doesn't know, that he's contemplating the pros and cons, it shows everything that's wrong with this relationship. Frankly, Keith doesn't want to hear it, even (especially) from his own subconscious.  
  
The decision of whether or not to go into the bathroom and brush his teeth while Anderson is still showering is made by the locked bathroom door, and Keith convinces himself it's out of habit and not because Anderson is keeping him out. It's getting to be too tiring to keep this game going inside his own head, and Keith goes for the best distraction he knows: baseball statistics. In the bottom of his night table drawer he keeps half a dozen warn books, references and yearly almanacs, the stuff he goes for when the taste of politics is particularly bitter, when he can't focus long enough for fiction.  
  
One of his favorites is  _The Book: Playing the Percentages in Baseball_. It doesn't really contain anything he hasn't known for years, but it's a good, concise distillation of sabermetrics, written recently enough that it's got updated vernacular to pair with good, old fashioned data. Keith finds solace in the straight, even rows of numbers, acronyms that mean more in his head than he could hope to describe to a novice in actual words. It keys into a passion he's had as long as he's been able to understand numbers and strategy, somehow manages to add structure to something as primal as competition and sport. One of Keith's favorite things on Earth is a completed game scorecard, the body and breadth of a game described in Hieroglyphics that only a true devotee of the game can easily understand.  
  
The book in his hands, he feels a little less unsure. It puts him back in his comfort zone, reminds him there is more to life than sex and personal companionship. He's got his numbers, and they will never let him down.  
  
He's so focused on the statistics that he starts a little when he hears the bathroom door pop open. The smell of his own shampoo wafts into the room along with the trapped humidity from the shower, and Anderson follows shortly, hair combed and skin toweled dry.  
  
And naked. It throws all the progress Keith's made via distraction directly out the window, and he feels instantly embarrassed that he decided to get dressed. It also causes the muscles in Keith's chest to clench, and he wishes, for once, that Anderson wasn't so ridiculously, unfairly attractive.  
  
"You didn't need to wait up," Anderson says, reaching down to retrieve his cell phone off the bedside table, keying something into it without looking up.  
  
"I didn't," Keith replies, and his voice sounds as thick as it feels coming out of his mouth. "I couldn't sleep," he adds, which he's not even sure is true, but it's as good an excuse as any. He closes his book, mostly to have something to do with his hands, some other place to focus his gaze.  
  
He hears Anderson put his phone down the same instant he turns to tuck the book back into its drawer. "You can keep reading if you want," Anderson tells him, and Keith feels the sheets move as Anderson folds them back. "I don't mind," he continues, sliding into bed, and Keith can't stop himself from turning his head so he can catch the last glimpse of each inch of alabaster skin before it disappears beneath the blankets.  
  
"It's okay," Keith responds, and the words sound far away, the afterimage of Anderson's flaccid cock burning into memory. "I've probably read that book half a dozen times already." Words just keep coming out of his mouth, and he's not really even paying attention to what they are. His brain is caught up in how mundane everything suddenly is, like Anderson sleeps over all the time, as if he's always naked in Keith's bed. Everything that's happened this evening is pooling together into a sticky, maddening puddle of confusion, and Keith's poor, exhausted psyche can't keep up.  
  
Anderson must notice him staring, because the line between his brows deepens. "I didn't freak you out at all tonight, did I?" he asks, scooting back toward the headboard and propping a pillow behind him. He seems careful to keep the sheet pulled up to his waist.  
  
"Did I seem freaked out?" Keith responds, proud that he's managed to sound far more unaffected than he actually feels.  
  
Anderson blinks, looking like he's trying to decide if he should address the current awkwardness or not. "No," he finally says. "I mean... I'm just not usually like... that."  
  
Keith swallows. Of course Anderson would be embarrassed by the way he'd acted, by the things he'd done that made Keith feel attractive and sexy and desired. "Anderson," Keith replies, and he's glad his voice is shredded, because it makes him sound gruff instead of desperate. "We've been doing this for a year and a half.  _I know._ "  
  
Anderson sighs, sagging back against the headboard. "It's just... All the shit going on in Syria, the GOP debates, the attacks on American civil rights..." He shakes his head, looking so world weary that it makes Keith feel guilty for his own woes. "I needed a distraction."  
  
"You should know, I'm more than happy to distract you. Or listen to you rant about things, commiserate. Whatever you need," Keith tells him, wanting Anderson to know he can come back for more of this. Wanting Anderson to come back for  _anything_.  
  
"Thank you," Anderson says, tone sincere, fingers playing with a fold in the blanket over his lap.  
  
"I know you don't like the idea of classifying this," Keith continues, because being sleep deprived and emotionally wrung out makes him too stupid to stop, "but I'm invested in it. In you. You don't have to thank me for anything."  
  
There's a ringing silence when he finishes, and he thinks that maybe he's done it, he's crossed the line here. But Anderson doesn't move to get up, just keeps fidgeting with the blankets, watching his own hands, breathing evenly in and out. The lack of reply is really starting to get Keith's anxiety going when Anderson's tongue comes out to wet his lips, and after the next inhalation, Anderson speaks.  
  
"When you lose people enough times," he starts, but then immediately stops, like he's not sure exactly where he's going with his line of thought. "You lose enough people close to you," he tries again, "and the idea of losing yourself to someone else, of getting close to someone," another pause, this one with a soft shake of his head. "It's terrifying. Knowing you could lose  _them_ , knowing you'd have to go through all of that again. And I, I can't–" This time it's something else that makes him stop, his sentence aborted in order to cut off an almost undetectable waver in his voice. "It makes me not want to let it happen," he finally finishes after a beat, his resolve strengthened. "I don't want to fall in love."  
  
Keith can't believe how much the actual words sting, hearing them out loud. The cynical side of him has always told him that Anderson wouldn't love him,  _couldn't_  love him, but the stupidly optimistic fraction of himself that refuses to give up, that part must have been holding out some kind of hope. "That's clever," he says, and his tone is so much more bitter than even he expected.  
  
It's enough to cause Anderson to lift his head and make eye contact with him. "I'm sorry?" Anderson says, clearly shocked by Keith's response.  
  
"You don't want to fall in love, so you fuck someone you hate," Keith explains, and he's already lost it, he might as well go all in. "It's a smart move."  
  
Anderson grimaces, expression sour. "I don't hate you."  
  
"But you don't really like me, do you?" he replies, shifting to sit up more fully. "I knew how this would play out from day one. And I know myself. I went ahead with this knowing it wouldn't be the same for you as it would be for me. I made the mistake of thinking I could handle it. Well, apparently I can't."  
  
Anderson's eyes are searching Keith's face as he processes Keith's words, and he looks more sad than upset now. "Does that mean you love me?" he finally asks, and it's in the tone that Anderson uses with the people he interviews, like there's a level of compassion there, but all he really wants is answers.  
  
"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Keith counters, because admitting feelings is something they're not supposed to be doing here; it's supposed to be a physical, intellectual companionship, nothing more.  
  
Anderson inhales sharply through his nose. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. "Yes," he says, absolutely sure.  
  
Keith swallows. What the hell; there's not a lot left to lose. "Then yes," he admits, the volume of his voice dropping. "I do."  
  
There's another long moment where no one speaks, and Keith can feel himself shaking on the inside, even if he's calm and still outwardly. Anderson at least has the decency to look sorry, to move his eyes away so they're not staring each other in the face.  
  
"If you knew," Anderson says, breaking the silence, his gaze still focused at the corner of the room, "If you know that I... That I don't feel that way," he trails off before he finishes his question, and Keith begs him silently to just drop it. He doesn't. "Why do you keep doing this?"  
  
 _Because people do stupid things when they're in love,_  Keith thinks.  _Because some of you is better than none of you. Because I'm desperate enough to take what I can get._  "Because you respect me," is what he actually says, and he manages to pitch his tone well enough that it even sounds sort of believable to his own ears. "Or at least you seem to. Because, as far as I know, you're not sleeping with anyone else," he continues, not even sure where all of this is coming from. "Which means, for some reason, you want me. That goes a pretty long way, especially when you're getting old and fat like I am." He stops after that, but hurries to continue when it looks like Anderson might want to weigh in on his self deprecation. "I'm not looking for anything serious," he lies, but it sounds true. "I just want intimacy. And I'd rather have it with someone who won't just fuck me and leave."  
  
The last part makes Anderson shift his eyes back. "Are you sure I'm what you want?" Anderson asks, his gaze searching, and Keith's a little worried that his real feelings are written all over his face; all Anderson will have to do is read them. "I don't always stay."  
  
"But you always come back," Keith replies, and he's panicking a little inside; Anderson sounds like he's considering breaking things off, and Keith's not prepared for that in the slightest. "If this is over, when it's over," he goes on, not really caring how pathetic he sounds, "will you at least please tell me? I don't think I could handle it if you just disappeared."  
  
Anderson silently holds Keith's gaze for a long moment, and there's a lot going on in Anderson's expression, but Keith's honestly too afraid to try and sort it out. "I can do that," Anderson finally replies. What he doesn't say – but that his eyes are explaining in spades – is that it's not over now, not tonight.  
  
Keith doesn't even try to hide his relief, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you," he replies, sounding breathless and vulnerable.  
  
Anderson nods, though the motion is almost nonexistent, and lifts a hand to Keith's cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of Keith's mouth. Keith can feel himself trembling (so he knows Anderson can feel it too), and he wishes he could stop, if only to prove he's not as weak as he feels. "Let's go to sleep," Anderson says, and Keith feels Anderson's fingers tense against his jaw a moment before Anderson is pressing their lips together. The kiss is soft and chaste, just a little damp from the moisture of Anderson's lips, but it makes Keith's heart shudder in his chest. And then Anderson pulls away, his fingers ghosting along the side of Keith's neck as he disconnects completely, sliding down the mattress and pulling the sheets up to his shoulders, turning onto his side to face away from Keith.

Keith feels like he might actually have some kind of cardiac event, the way his heart is palpitating. He doesn't really know what any of this means, what has actually just happened here between them. His fingers feel numb when he reaches to turn off the lamp, his head dizzy, and when he lays down on his back in the dark, the room spins like it would if he'd been drinking. He closes his eyes tightly against the sensation, focusing on his breathing, trying to keep it quiet and even. He has a bad feeling sleep isn't going to be his friend tonight, and the last thing he wants is to keep Anderson awake in the process.  
  
Furthering the conspiracy of his body against him, he only gets a couple minutes of peace before the inevitable itchy, tingling feeling begins in his calves. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to convince his nervous system to stop it, but as hard as he tries, it's not really something that obeys mind over matter. He curls his toes and flexes his feet, engaging his muscles, and it dulls the feeling in his lower legs, only for it to travel upward into his hamstrings and thighs. Clenching his jaw, he forces his breathing to stay calm, but his heart rate is climbing with anxiety and anger. Why, of all nights, does this have to be so aggressive tonight? Any other night he'd just get up and walk, have a whiskey and take his meds and wait for it to go away. But if he moves now, he'll disturb Anderson, and Anderson will leave, which is something Keith absolutely will not allow to happen. He needs Anderson to be here in the morning. Desperately.  
  
But his ankles are starting to ache from the way he's holding his legs, and the flexing of his muscles is just not enough. A mental image of stabbing himself in the thigh with the scissors in his bedside table comes to mind, and he finds he likes the idea a little too much. He has to get up, or he's going to do something drastic. So he moves as carefully as he can, folding the blankets back and rolling smoothly out of bed. He focuses on Anderson as he stands, and the other man appears to be asleep, motionless and breathing deeply.  
  
Keith makes a quick exit in the main part of the house, glad he's smart enough to keep a bottle of his pills in the kitchen so he doesn't have to go fumble around in the master bathroom in the dark. He takes them with a glass of tap water, foregoing the booze for now, hoping the drugs kick in quickly so he can get back into bed. He doesn't bother turning the lights on, just wanders around his living room in the moonlight, pacing along the line of the floor to ceiling windows. If it were summer, he might go out on the terrace; fresh air seems to help, at least with his state of mind. But it's February and, while it's been unseasonably warm, it's not nice enough to go out in his bare feet and pajamas.  
  
Bored and restless, his mind wanders to all sorts of topics: baseball projections for 2012, GOP candidate polling percentages, how long it's been since he's been upstate to visit his sister. And Anderson – of course Anderson, _always_  Anderson – who's in his bed right now, naked, and he's out here, giving in to the defection of his aging body. It makes him wonder about romance novels, romantic comedies, where no one ever has to deal with this sort of unflattering bullshit. Conflict is never like this in the movies. Disease is always tragic, and love triumphs over all.  
  
It all reminds him how tenuous this relationship really is. Love is supposed to be blind, but is there any way to get past the clarity of not-love? Probably not. And if Anderson can already see all his flaws, all the unattractive things about him, what kind of chance does Keith have of Anderson ever falling for him?  
  
"Nil," he says aloud, and nearly has a heart attack when someone replies, "Nil what?"  
  
"Jesus," is his response, palm flying to his chest as he turns his head to find Anderson standing just at the end of the hall from the bedroom. His pulse is hammering behind his sternum, and the sudden spike in his heart rate is compounded by the fact that Anderson didn't bother to cover himself up with anything before coming into the living room.  
  
"You okay?" Anderson asks, and Keith forces himself to breathe.  
  
"Aside from the heart attack you just gave me?" Keith replies, smirking a little as he drops his hand. "Fine. Just my legs bothering me."  
  
Anderson frowns, padding slowly across the carpet toward him. "Can I do anything?" he wants to know, and his expression is so concerned, his tone so compassionate, it almost makes Keith believe he really cares.  
  
"No," Keith answers. "I just have to wait for the medication to start working."  
  
Anderson nods, leaning back against the arm of Keith's couch. He looks like some kind of specter, the soft illumination from the moon and the city lights making his skin and hair silvery, his body too absolutely perfect to be real. Anderson even has beautiful feet. Keith's eyes alight at Anderson's groin, and it's honestly like looking at a sculpture; no one on Earth should have such a pretty cock. He bites the insides of his cheeks and forces himself to look up at Anderson's face instead.  
  
"I don't know that much about it," Anderson is saying. "The RLS," he clarifies, and it's clear he's just trying to do _something_  other than stand in awkward silence. "How long have you had it?"  
  
"Five or six years," Keith responds, remembering when it came on, so random that he spent the first six months thinking he was imagining it. "It comes and goes. I haven't had it keep me up in a few weeks, actually."  _Perfect timing,_  he sarcastically adds inside his head.  
  
Anderson's brow creases. "That's not my fault, is it?"  
  
"No," Keith's quick to respond. "No, actually, uh, usually that helps," he continues, feeling himself smile a little. "Dopamine and all that."  
  
It takes Anderson a second or two to get what Keith is hinting at, and Keith can tell when it dawns, because Anderson's return smile is a little devious. "Oh, well," he says, looking at Keith through his eyelashes. "If you want, I could always..." he continues, trailing off but completing his thought with a vague but unmistakable gesture of his right hand.  
  
Keith feels his face flush; it seems he's reverted to the mentality a fifteen year old boy. His libido desperately wants him to take Anderson up on his offer, but he knows, logically, it's not going to be as nice (or as easy) as it sounds. "That's, uh," he replies, mentally cursing himself for stammering. He's been a sexually active adult long enough that the prospect of getting a handjob shouldn't turn him into a gibbering idiot. "As much as I'd love for you to do that," he amends, trying to sound not just secure, but also a little sexy. "I don't think things are going to... cooperate, unfortunately," he finishes.  
  
"Say no more," Anderson responds, hands up in supplication. "I completely understand."  
  
The ease with which Anderson says it makes Keith wonder if it's a  _personal_  understanding, or if it's slightly different experience talking. Keith doesn't make a habit of imagining the kind of guy Anderson usually sleeps with; he's pretty sure he's the exception to the rule, and doesn't really need to remind himself that he's lucky to be in the picture at all.  
  
There's another long moment of silence between them, and Keith sort of hates this, right now, because as much as he likes that Anderson's here (and doesn't seem to be planning his exit any time soon), not knowing what to do or say is making him anxious and uncomfortable. "You don't have to wait for me," he says, finally, unable to take it anymore, hoping Anderson doesn't interpret it as his cue to leave.  
Anderson doesn't reply right away, but he doesn't move either, just turns his gaze to look out Keith's windows into the city.  
  
"When I was a kid," Anderson eventually says, still looking into the darkened sky, "sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night. I don't remember having nightmares or anything, just that I'd suddenly be awake. The house would be dark and a little too quiet, and I'd start thinking about what might be out there. Or what might not be." He pauses, and Keith thinks maybe he's heard this story before, somewhere, but there's no way he's going to interrupt, not with the obvious sentimentally in Anderson's voice. "So I'd get out of bed as carefully as I could," Anderson begins again, "and sneak into the hall, down the stairs. When I got halfway down, I'd see light flooding into the downstairs hall, coming from my dad's study. I don't know why, but it's like he was always up late on the nights I woke up like that. I used to think maybe I heard him, the sound of his typewriter or something, but there's no way I could have from all the way up in my bedroom.  
  
"I wasn't supposed to be up, and if Mom had caught me, she'd have sent me straight back to bed. But Dad never said anything at all. I'd come around the door into his office and he'd just push his chair back a little, giving me space to crawl into his lap. And I'd fall asleep like that, curled up against his chest, listening to the typewriter keys and his heartbeat."  
  
Keith watches Anderson's face as he finishes speaking, his eyes shifting a little, and Keith realizes belatedly that Anderson's not looking out the window, he's looking at his own reflection in the glass. It makes something swell at the base of Keith's throat, and he forces a swallow past it. He really should say something, and he opens his mouth to try, but Anderson beats him to it.  
  
"I miss it, I guess," he says, looking down at the floor for a second before raising his eyes to Keith's. "Not having to wake up alone."  
  
These words don't do anything to help the lump in Keith's throat. In fact, it feels like it's grown, pushing down into his chest, and he worries for a minute that he's not going to be able to breathe around it. It makes his inhale sharp and loud, and he has to blink hard to keep his eyes from tearing. He doesn't know what to say, and it occurs to him that this only ever happens with Anderson. He's a professional when it comes to getting the last word, but once again Anderson has stunned him into silence.  
  
"Do you think you can come back to bed now?" Anderson asks, and it's late, so Keith's ears could be playing tricks on him, but Anderson sounds so vulnerable, it's almost frightening.  
  
"Yeah," he hears himself say, and Anderson stands up straight, heading to the bedroom ahead of him. It gives Keith the opportunity to watch him walk away, and where most nights he'd use it to get a good look at Anderson's ass, this time he fixes his gaze on the back of Anderson's neck, memorizing his hairline, the color of his skin there, a little darker than the rest from the sun.  
  
They get into bed together, shifting and pulling blankets up around themselves, and this time Anderson turns onto the side facing Keith. They never cuddle – Anderson tends to sleep curled up on his side and Keith's always been a back sleeper – so it's fairly significant when Anderson slides a hand across the space separating them and curves his palm around Keith's bicep. Keith doesn't want to push it, but needs to acknowledge the contact, so he crosses his right arm over his chest and tucks the backs of his fingers up against Anderson's, their knuckles fitting together.  
  
They don't stay that way all night, or even until they fall asleep, but the few moments they do calms Keith's anxiety enough that, once they disconnect, he falls almost instantly into a deep, peaceful sleep. When he wakes the next morning, the warm sensation of it lingers without being a specific memory, and it's more than a little jarring when he opens his eyes and finds himself alone.  
  
He tries to not jump to conclusions. Just because Anderson's not in bed, it doesn't mean he left in the middle of the night. Focusing, Keith listens for signs of life, but the shower's not running, and when he sits up he can see that Anderson's clothes are no longer on the chair where he left them. The sinking feeling in his stomach makes Keith feel a little ill, and he looks over to Anderson's bedside table to see if his glasses are gone too.  
  
That's when he notices the note, written on paper from the pad in the kitchen, sitting on Anderson's pillow. It's folded once, right down the middle, and it doesn't have Keith's name on it, but it was obviously left there for him.  
  
All those things he's imagined Anderson would say when he left for good start flooding into Keith's mind, and his hand is shaking when he reaches over to retrieve the note. He holds it closed in his hands for a dozen long seconds, deepening the crease of the fold with his thumbs. He told Anderson last night he wanted this, to be told when it was over. He asked for this.  
  
Taking a breath, he opens the note. It's upside down and he has to turn it over, and his ears start ringing as soon he recognizes his name at the top; he hates himself for loving the way it looks in Anderson's handwriting. He closes his eyes for a second, steeling himself, then opens them to read.  
  
 _Keith -  
  
I ran to the store - you somehow don't have any peanut butter. I'm bringing you home a coffee, don't get up!  
  
-A_  
  
His relief is so acute that he can't help himself from laughing. He reads it again, and again, and the part of him that is the chief news officer and statistician wants him to analyze and deconstruct it, but it all gets overridden by his heart, which can't stop reading the word  _home_.  
  
Anderson brings back bagels in addition to Keith's coffee and his jar of peanut butter. They eat breakfast in bed, Anderson stripping down to his underwear and getting back in as if he hadn't left in the first place. Keith expects that maybe Anderson will leave after they've eaten, but instead he borrows a t-shirt from Keith and they spend some time together in Keith's living room, Keith catching up on his favorite baseball blogs on his laptop while Anderson reads the newspaper.  
  
It's companionable and comfortable and domestic, and it makes Keith feel so content that he pretends this is how it is every day, that this is his life, a normal Saturday afternoon with his boyfriend. He makes lunch and Anderson finds one of those  _Real Housewives_  shows to watch on television while they eat at the coffee table. Keith imagines that his DVR is full of hours of reality TV, because if Anderson stayed more often, Keith would let him record anything he wanted.  
  
It gets even better when Anderson decides to start making out with him during a commercial break, and they end up horizontal on the couch, dry humping until Keith's knees start to ache and they both get a little too chaffed. But then they relocate to the bedroom, and Keith finds himself sinking into Anderson for the second time in less than twelve hours. And, as he moves, Anderson's heels digging into his back, he pleads the universe to just let them stay this way, like a real couple who have meals together, who randomly have sex in the middle of the day, who enjoy just being close to each other, existing side by side. He pours all that hope into fucking Anderson, and it shapes the way he touches, holds, kisses, even breathes. And it's  _so_  good when he finally comes, even better when he focuses on getting Anderson to follow him. He can't know for sure, but the sound of Anderson's voice, the way he shakes, Keith swears that Anderson can feel it too, the current of change running between them.  
  
Keith cleans them up cursorily and they end up napping unintentionally, naked on top of the covers. It's just about dusk when Keith wakes up, and he almost feels like crying when he opens his eyes and sees Anderson there, curled up beside him. This is bliss like he hasn't felt in years, beautiful and perfect, the colors of sunset cast across the serene, peaceful face of someone he loves. He allows himself to bask in it, to just lie there for awhile and watch Anderson sleep. And, for the first time, he doesn't even consider that it's all too good to be true.


End file.
